Memoria
by Memoriame
Summary: Life dealt me a bad hand, and now I'm slipping away from it all. Surrounded by the white walls of the mental institution, I can't keep myself sane enough to remember what landed me here in the first place. Even my own name is lost to me. Then the patient in room 113 starts biting people, chaos ensues, and I'm on my own. Until I'm not. Dark/Angst/Love, Set during season 2, Daryl/OC.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello lovlies! Welcome to my little somethin'-somethin' that I've put together and hope will last for a while. New account, new story - and The Walking Dead at that! NOT my first fanfiction - I've been writing those for years - but this is the first time I make an attempt at a fanfic in The Walking Dead universe. **

**REVIEWS ARE EVERYTHING!**

**Anyway, I rated this M because this story contains mention of abuse (of many kinds), general violence, bad language and sexual situations (har, har). You no like-y, you no read-y, got it? **

**I'm kind of a sucker for drama and angst, I love symbolism and foreshadowing, and I always try to include a deeper meaning into everything, so keep on the alert. If you pay enough attention, you'll pick up on a few things.**

**TWD is, of course, not mine. But the OC's are. Hope you enjoy. **

**PROLOGUE**

**And Oh, My Soul So Weary**

Time moved slowly. If you didn't pay enough attention, you'd think time was frozen. But there was still subtle changes outside as the season changed – now, we were heading towards fall. The huge hedges that surrounded the property were just a bit thinner, just a bit more see-through than they had been a couple of weeks ago; though nothing would be able to affect the height of their looming statues as they cast long afternoon shadows once they swallowed the sun around two 'o'clock. The trees scattered around in the garden, though never big and heavy with leaves, still showed the passing of time; leaves turning reddish and brownish, branches more naked than before, thinner somehow, and some breaking and falling down towards the ground along with their leafy companions. The ground itself turning almost yellow, leaving bare patches of dirt and dust between the dying grass – then there was only mud, a creation that came along with cloudy days of rain and wind.

The rain seldom touched the inhabitants of the huge, white brick building that hid behind the hedges, at the very center of the garden. This because it was rare to see people walking about outside at this time of year. It was simply too depressing, all this death and dullness. Most kept inside, shielded by more walls, their color the same, fading white as the building's exterior. Sometimes you'd catch a lonely soul walking aimlessly among the dying trees late at night, downpour or not, before a couple of more – maybe three – people showed up to drag the wanderer back inside. As if the lost one was doing something wrong – as if wandering about had become a crime.

I'd found that somehow, somewhere, sometime – this had in fact become a crime. They called it curfew and during the fall- and winter months the restrictions that bound us to this place became even tighter. Someone had died a few years back, frozen to death, to be found covered with a blanket of snow along one of the hedges. The consequences came down on us all. I guess a situation like that is how the term "for the greater good" came to be. I didn't mind. Didn't really care. I avoided the outside to the best of my ability. The white walls were _my _blanket – of comfort, stability and peace. There was no place I'd rather be. Not even the garden.

So of course fate decided I was to travel soon and in the most uncomfortable circumstances as well. My life had always hated me.

Actually, life was the one to land me in this place. See, fate has a rather cruel and twisted humor, and while I'd always acknowledged that all people go trough difficulties at some point in their lives –the people surrounding me day in and day out living proofs of this – I was dealt a rather rare unfortunate card when I came to be. I imagine God, if he even existed, got bored that particular day I was born, and decided to stir things up a little. I had no idea what it was about me that had caught his gaze, but the outcome was most unwelcome.

I guess at first everything had seemed fine. From the information I'd gathered from our family's photos stored in my mother's albums, I'd been born into a suburban-white-picket-fence kind of life. Nothing fancy or anything, but there had been a dog and a station wagon, and even a decent sized kitchen for my mother to cook in. There had been no lack of toys or affection or anything like that. There were no siblings, but a loving mother and a mildly absent but kind enough father. Picture perfect, or so I thought. My problems started the day our family dynamic changed, and said father wasn't so absent any more.

He was a bus driver, but a bit too heavy on the flask during the weekends. I didn't really care, I was too young at that point, and he was always out with his old buddies from high school – which was as far as his education went. But then the weekends weren't enough, and when you're behind the wheel with dozens of people's lives in your hands, reeking of liquor is, of course, frowned upon. Needles to say, he lost his job, and instead of getting a new one, he made drinking his new, fulltime hobby, and the plush, pink sofa in the living room became his new station. My mother, who'd spent her days managing a bakery, had to take upon herself a second job, only to be stuck at the cash register at our small, southern town's supermarket during evening hours. I say I don't remember much, sometimes I remember nothing at all, but one detail always sticks: as the first weeks adjusting to our new situation dragged by, my mother seemed to age ten years. The bakery opened at 6am. The supermarket closed at 11 pm. It didn't take long before fine, grey hairs started sprouting out of my her temples, her skin sagging as stress and sleep deprivation took its toll on her body. She became thinner, more fragile-looking, which of course added to my father's growing guilt and depression. He'd put us in this situation. He had only himself to blame. And who willingly admits to defeat and failure just like that? Not a drunken, good-for-nothing redneck, that's for sure.

So he blamed _her._ First there were subtle hints, like an undercurrent of frustration stirring in the air whenever he laid his pale, grey eyes on my mother's back as she scurried across the living room, collecting empty beer bottles off the table. Then the remarks began to make themselves known; she stole away his youth, she didn't smile enough, she was banging the cupboards in the kitchen too loudly, and eventually – she was an ugly, goddamned piece of trash and if it took a good ol' beating to get her act together, it was his job as her husband to make sure it was done properly.

And I? I stood there, in that small corner of the living room, wedged between the sofa and one of my mother's antique bookshelves and saw, listened and could do nothing as his fists rained down on my mother's face. I was maybe three years old that very first time. And as I grew older, these beatings went from happening once every second month, to nearly once a week, usually weekends. And though I knew it was bound to happen at some point, I still wasn't prepared for the day those beady, drunken eyes turned to me and I found my eleven year old self nursing a bruise on my lip one Saturday evening. When my bed room door creaked open late one night a few days later, I learned that my father had developed a special way of apologizing for marking my skin, and started bruising something much more valuable and fragile instead: my psyche. _My soul._

Sometimes, I slip away. Mentally, that is. The doctors residing in the huge white, brick building always called it my coping mechanism, a habit my fractured mind had conjured up during the beatings and those nightly visits. One time I disappeared inside my head for a whole day, sunrise 'til sundown, and I couldn't remember anything that had transpired during those precious hours. When I came to, I was sitting on a hospital bed, clad in a white, almost see-through gown and my father was dead. I was seventeen, and I'd lost a parent and a day at the same time.

Car accident. Drunk driver. Only in this case, though they called me a victim, I couldn't find it in me to feel like one. Because I was the oncoming car that had severed into the opposite lane, and while my father was the one behind the wheel, he was not alive anymore to share this burden, nor would he have bothered to had he learned of the consequences of his foolishness. No, I was left behind to take on the blame, and feel the sorrow of being the one that had come crashing into the small Volvo occupied by a family of four: a father – a local policeman the doctors told me – his wife, their son of ten years, and their newborn daughter. Newborn, yes, so new that they were headed home from the hospital where the wife had delivered the baby a few days prior. They died on the scene, a whole family. And sometimes, I think maybe I died with them that day.

I never knew their names, never knew their faces, yet I saw them every night after that, in my dreams; a police hat, unmistakably southerner, resting atop a young boys mop of brown hair as he cuddled his baby sister to sleep before everything faded into white. I would wake then, cradling my skinny knees to my chest and I'd sing that song I remembered best from my childhood, the one my mother would sing when sleep wouldn't come. And that's how the nurse would hear me before she saw me as she made her nightly rounds, the fragile words of "The parting glass" skipping through the hospital hallways, tinged with tears and regret.

They gave me all the time they could spare, but the coping mechanism, though necessary and probably life saving at one point, had become a nuisance. I would slip, even when I tried not to, and hours would be gone. And that is how I found myself admitted to a mental institution in my late teens, a place meant to heal those wounds my body and mind wouldn't even allow myself to recall.

I lost track of everything. Time, space, place along with faces, names, events. All gone, until one day, not so very long ago, I walked the hallways of my seemingly permanent home, and couldn't remember how I'd even gotten there. Glimpses of images would swirl inside my head, and clear moments would occur – like the one I'm having right now, remembering all of this, but still… they will disappear again. And I will listen to my mother as she cries by my bed, but I will not be able to actually see her.

Her face is always a blur these days, her name – along with my own – an unsolved puzzle. The white coats will tell me my story, again and again, hoping that one day, it will all stick – stay put, so to speak. So far, it never has. I will slip, time will escape me, and I will come to when my mind has ridden itself of the unpleasantness. And then I will learn it all over again, until I cannot take anymore, and I will disappear once again.

And that is, amazingly enough, how my story begins.


	2. Too Many Days

**A/N: Well, I didn't waste any time, did I? Time for the next dive into "Memoria", now getting a proper introduction of our many character out in the open, in order to understand to which extent her mental illness goes. THANK YOU SO MUCH for your opinions and reviews so far, along with the fave's and the follow's. Much appreciated! And needles to say, it keeps my inspiration flowing.**

**With that said, this is not some random thing I've cooked up and published on just to get some sort of recognition for it. I have had this story in my head for about probably two month already, I wrote down detailed character descriptions before starting this, and I've already typed down one of the last chapters (!), although it will be a long time until we reach that far. I've also typed several paragraphs that will appear mid-story, scenes that I know will be included somehow, when the timing is right.**

**I know exactly where all this is going, how it's going to end and what the outcome of our girl's fate will be, and it makes this so much fun to write. Because it's already there, I just need to get it out somehow.**

**Anyway, here goes nothing: I hope you enjoy, and if you do (or don't for that matter): don't hesitate to tell me so.**

**TOO MANY DAYS  
**

_Too many days I wake up with an aching__  
__Too many days have been wasted like sand__  
__Too many hours have gone by without notice__  
__Too many times I've let go of your hand_

Name? Unknown. Age? Young-ish. Gender? Female, last time I checked. Height? 5'4", or so the nurse told me when she made her morning rounds earlier today. Weight? The number is never constant long enough for me to determine. Hair color? A dirty, strawberry blonde, often unwashed and hanging dead and limp down to my shoulders. Eye color? Bluish-grey with raccoon-like circles surrounding them. Other trademarks? A fine sprinkle of freckles scattered about my pale face and the top of my shoulders. Occupation? Could've had a bachelor degree by now had I moved on to my studies straight after high school – had I completed high school in the first place. Relations? Unknown… to me, at least.

I looked up from the clipboard resting in my lap and leaned back where I was resting in the windowsill. My doctor and the nurses made me fill out this form every mid-day, and I knew they would go through my answers in a couple of hours, trying to see if I'd given them any clues as to if I showed any sign of improvement. So far I must've been a huge disappointment, because every day the clipboard would find its way back to the desk in the corner of the room. Try again. Some days the nurses had to explain its presence and tell me to answer the questions to be found on the white sheet of paper, other days – the good ones – I remembered what to do and went to work without being told. This was a good day, apparently, and the second I'd come back from breakfast I'd grabbed a pen and settled down by the window – as was my usual spot – and answered what they needed to know.

The questions asked about my appearances were always easy – the mirror hanging above the sink in my bathroom told me all I needed to know. Sad, really, how some times I had to get up and actually check to see what I looked like, simply because I'd forgotten. I wondered if maybe, if I became so sick that I forgot I existed, if I'd just fall off the face of the earth and be gone. Probably not because no matter how many times I'd slip and disappear into myself, my doctor was always there to bring me back.

The other questions on the form were a bit tougher, because they required me to actually try to remember. The mirror could be pretty useful to determine my age of course, but if I cheated like that, I would never improve. So I had to think, and eventually take a guess. More often than not, I guessed wrong, but I tried not to dwell on that.

When it came to relations, I wanted to laugh. I could never get that one right. From what the white coats told me, I saw my mother nearly every day. She'd usually show up after dinnertime, bringing treats and magazines for me and such. Sometimes I'd be lucid and we'd talk. Usually however, I'd be seemingly ignoring her completely. Either way, mentally present or simply gone, I'd forget about her as soon as she rounded the corner leading to the main entrance of the building. As soon as she left, she ceased to exist in my world, as though she'd never been here in the first place.

I'd stopped asking for my mother, and they had stopped mentioning her as often as they used to. When I was first admitted to this place, and there was still some hope among the white coats that I would be cured of this madness and memory losses somehow, they would tell me everything that had transpired during the day, checking how much my conscious mind had been able to remember. This had proved to be a grave mistake on their part. It went sort of like this: nightfall would settle in, and about half an hour before the lights turned off, the nurse on duty that particular day – or my appointed doctor, if he was still in – would come into the sanctuary of my room, sit on the edge of my bed, demand my attention, and start talking. She or he would inform me of what I had for breakfast that very morning, what had transpired during both one-on-one and group therapy, how long my afternoon nap had lasted for, what I'd consumed for dinner, and how my mother had spent two hours sitting on that very spot on my bed later on in the evening. At first, there had been no recognition to be found in my blank stare, but as I grew accustomed to the people around me, and my new home, my condition had improved somewhat. Until, finally, I showed signs of recognition. Suddenly, I would tell the nurse or my doctor of the day's events, checking with them if I had remembered correctly. Sometimes I had, most often I was talking about a day that had passed several weeks ago, but they were happy nonetheless. It meant I remembered something. Sadly, as I mentioned, this interrogation method of theirs had proved to be a mistake, simply because of the rookie, just-out-of-school nurse they'd let loose on me one evening. Misunderstanding her task completely, she had not only informed me of my day, but also of my entire life, asking me questions about the childhood my mind had forbidden me to remember. The consequences came down on us all; me, of course, the victim of this badly handled situation, but also the staff of the institution, which had come to invest their professional as well as personal feelings into my situation. When the result of that particular questioning sent me into the black depths into my own mind for nearly a month, the institution was in an uproar, staff and patients alike. Needless to say, that nurse never came near me again. And that particular evening routine came to a stop once I finally slipped out of my self-induced coma and came to.

The white coats left it to me to decide the paste after that, and bore the fruits from their patience as well, sometimes. Because in rare, seldom moments, I found myself remembering everything, entirely on my own. Something would happen – a sentence said, a scene playing out in the cafeteria similar to something I'd experienced as a child, serving as jumper cables to my brainstem, sending my mind into a frenzy of images long forgotten. Coincidentally, but on mere occasions, I would hold the form in my hands in that minute and get every question right, thus stirring hope in the whole building as word of my accomplishment travelled through staff and patients. But, as if the load of the sudden new information was too much for my brain to handle, I would forget it all once more, only after such an event, I would usually loose my grip on reality and slip inside my mind for a whole day as well. My doctor had many theories for this, the most popular one being the one mentioned above: it was simply too much to take in, too many unpleasant thoughts making themselves known, too many nightmares resurfacing. I guess you could say all this combined would send my brain into overdrive, and cause a malfunction somewhere deep inside. And so they lost me. Once. Twice. Thrice. Until they stopped celebrating the return of my sanity; no, they started dreading the consequences my lucid moments would bring instead.

I was brought back from my musings at the sound of a swift knock on my door before a man poked his head inside. My eyes focused on him and I frowned for only the smallest of moments. He came forth and I studied his appearances; everything from the white, thick white mustache covering his upper lip and stretching down to a full-length beard, the long, standard white coat resting on his shoulders with a nametag and professional ID clipped to the breast pocket, to the pale khaki sand coloring of his pants, the old-fashioned kind elderly men often wore. And it was fitting, because this one was an elderly – or on his way to be one, anyway. He had to be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, even, too old climb the ladder of his career and use the institution as a means to land himself a more sought after position somewhere else like many of the younger doctors here did, but still just a bit too young for retirement. He seemed familiar, but I didn't recognize him immediately, and seeing as he didn't seem surprised by this fact I filled in the blank spaces in my mind and concluded that this must be my doctor. As soon as that thought appeared, I knew my assumption was correct, and understanding dawned on my face for him to see. He nodded his approval and bid me good morning.

"How are you feeling today?" he asked as he stepped across the floor and came to stand by the window with me. The pale, midafternoon sun reflected off of his nametag and he took a fleeting look out down to the garden before refocusing his attention on me. I knew he would not formally introduce himself, because I was supposed to know him, so I went along with the charade and gave him a tired smile.

"Fine. Confused, but fine," I said, wondering how many times I'd uttered those words.

"And the questions, did you answer them yet?" he nodded to the sheets of paper in my hands.

"Yeah. I've only got a couple left," I said.

He reached out and I gave the clipboard to him, watching as he studied my answers with pale, blue eyes.

"A good day, I presume," he said, lifting his gaze to me, wearing a hint of a smile on his face.

I grinned slightly, "Seems like it,"

"Did you have to look in the mirror again?"

"No," I said, shaking my head, and almost feeling a bit proud of the fact that for now, I remembered exactly what I looked like.

"Your age, you didn't answer that one," he pointed out.

"I…" I hesitated, "I dunno. It was easier before. But nowadays, I'd say I was in my twenties, but that's about it,"

"What's getting you confused?"

"Well I look young. I don't have any wrinkles to speak of yet, not even those you get from laughing too much. And, uh, I can't tell if that's because it's too early for me still, or because I simply haven't laughed all that much in the past," I said, and bit my bottom lip thoughtfully.

"I see," the doc nodded, "and I understand. Would you like me to tell you your age?"

I thought for a moment, "No. Tell me when it's absolutely necessary or if I ask you sometime. I don't need to know that now,"

Truth to be told, my age scared me. I knew I'd arrived to this place when I was seventeen. Sometimes, it felt as though I'd occupied this room, numbered 111, for ages. Others, and more often, I'd wake up, not recognize where I was at, and trick myself into believing I arrived just yesterday. I used oblivion as a comfort blanket, a habit I knew my doctor thought badly of. But, he would accept my request anyway, because pushing me had proved to be futile.

"What's on the agenda today?" I asked, leaving the previous and slightly difficult subject behind. The good ol' doc took my bait, if somewhat begrudgingly.

"You have therapy in half an hour. The conference room on fourth floor,"

"You know, if you taped a time schedule to one of the walls somewhere in here, you wouldn't have to come in to remind me of my chores every day," I pointed out.

His face immediately softened at my words and he shook his head before stating, "You're not a kid, and I wouldn't disrespect you by treating like one. Besides, it's my job,"

I got his meaning and looked outside again.

"I'll leave you be," he said then.

"Hey doc?" I said to his back as he reached the door. My instinct was to get his attention by calling his name, but now that his nametag was no longer in view, I found that I couldn't remember what it was. He turned halfway around, the tag still not visible, and I gave up on the pretense of knowing what it had said in the first place.

"Yes?"

"You… you'll, uh, come find me before therapy? So I won't forget?"

The old man suddenly looked tired as he studied me and said, "You ask me that every day, and I always do,"

This piece of information struck me hard, but before I could reply, he was gone. The sound of tires on gravel made me turn and look back outside, though, and the memory of my doctor slipped from my mind. Instead I watched as a delivery truck pulled up by the front entrance. It was semi-big, its painting a creamy, white color with a company logo covering the surface on both of its sides. I leant forward slightly, my focus sharpened as I felt myself waiting for something, but not yet knowing what. But then the driver's side door opened and a man clad in jeans and a dark, brown leather jacket stepped out. Keeping myself partly obscured from his view by pulling the curtains halfway closed, I studied the lone figure down in the garden as he went around the vehicle and pulled a latch, allowing the back to slide open so he could get to the cargo the truck was carrying. Someone joined him then, and elderly doctor with long white beard. Seeing him stirred something inside of me, and I thought I maybe knew him, but I got the same feeling when looking at the delivery-guy so I paid no more attention to it. Anything would trigger a memory these days, even seeing people I had never met before.

The two stood talking for a minute, before the youngest laughed out loud. In doing so, he tilted his head back, and for a quick moment, his eyes swept over the position where I was seated by the window. He seemed to pause momentarily, before clapping the doctor on his back and diving into the truck to unload his delivery. I soon came to the conclusion that he was the one to bring medical supplies to this place in the middle of nowhere, which I figured was also the reason he didn't bother with a uniform. Residing on the outskirts of a small southern, American town, the mental institution, and its partners were anything but formal, as everyone seemed to know everyone, speaking in friendly manners every time deliveries were made from different companies by different people, whether it was food or other necessities. As I looked, I noticed that this one looked different from other southerners in the truck-driving business, his hair a bit too long, but his face clean-shaven and fresh looking. There was no denying that he was unbelievable handsome, and I guessed the familiar stirring in my gut that told me he was no stranger to me, meant that this wasn't the first time I'd taken notice of his charming appearance.

He was soon out of sight, the doctor following close behind him, and they entered the building. Soon their voices travelled to where I sat, the open bedroom door allowing me to hear their approach as they headed towards the supply storage on my floor. Fortunately, they rounded a corner somewhere, taking them away from my room, and I was relieved I wouldn't have to deal with formal pleasantries should the guy notice me as he passed by. Other people were outside now, nurses by the looks of it, helping unload the different stuff from the back of the truck. When he arrived outside, several shouted their greetings, and he grinned in return, paying particularly close attention to a couple of the younger, female nurses. I frowned, but stayed hidden where I sat, simply observing. It wasn't long before he was inside the building again, another box of supplies in his arms. And so it went on for another fifteen minutes, until finally I saw the old doctor shake the man's hand as they stood out in the garden. They were saying goodbye for now. The doc didn't go back to the institution, but seemed to be heading for a lone patient standing by one of the few trees nearby. Not many people hospitalized in his place ventured outside, but as I watched, I realized that this particular one actually had a habit of doing so. I knew this, because he was one of the few people my mind allowed me to recognize. I thought I even remembered his name, but more surprisingly, I seemed to recall which room he was staying in; two down to my left, room 113. This revelation made me happy and I let my eyes travel from the pair by the trees, to the delivery guy as he headed back to his truck. He was still smiling somewhat faintly, and I wondered what had gotten him in such a chipper mood. Then his head lifted and his eyes met mine. Of course, there was a small, but significant distance between us, so I couldn't be completely sure, but it seemed as if he was staring straight at me. Gone was the smile, and he looked to be wearing a small frown. Then, so quickly, I thought I had imagined it, he tilted his head in a silent nod – a strange form of greeting – before vanishing into the vehicle. I could only watch in sudden disappointment as he pulled away and drove through the open gates of the property and disappeared out of sight.

I stayed put where I was for another few minutes. A small bird – sparrow-looking – settled on the windowsill outside, not put out with me behind the glass separating us at all. I wondered where it would go now that the temperature seemed to drop several degrees with each passing day. Its beady, small eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once as the creature jerked its head around, wings fluttering close to its body. I was tempted to knock on the glass to see its reaction, but kept myself in check. Its beak latched onto something on the sill and I saw it picking it up, before diving its head down to retrieve another piece. After closer inspection I noticed a trail of breadcrumbs, and I knew they were there because I had probably placed them there, though I had no memory of it. Then it became quite still, spread its tiny wings, and took off. It wasn't long after that a presence made itself known in my doorway. I lifted my eyes and said hello to the new arrival, while concluding that he seemed to be one of the doctors at this place. His face was kind and quiet; the lower half covered in a long beard, its color the same shade of white as his thinning hair. He studied me for a moment, as though searching for something, and I took in the nametag clipped to his coat's breast pocket. I read the name out loud, but the slight monotone and formality in my voice must've not been what he hoped to find, because he sighed heavily. I let myself study him further, and smiled at the pants he was wearing, their khaki sand coloring so typical an elderly man's fashion. He looked every bit like somebody's grandpa. I wondered briefly if he was _my_ grandpa.

"Time for therapy," he said, his voice rough and worn, but patient and kind nonetheless.

"Okay," I nodded, accepting this information to be truthful and stood up, "where to?"

"Conference room, fourth floor,"

I bit my lip at hearing this.

"And where's that, exactly?"

He said nothing, but stepped to the side and allowed me access to the door.

"I'll walk you,"

And I was grateful, because the corridor I stepped into was as unfamiliar to me as this man was, and I could no longer remember what floor I was headed towards, or why I was going there in the first place.

**A/N:** _Song: Too Many Days - Maria Solheim_


	3. I Remember

**A/N: Why thank you for your reviews! I haven't had the opportunity to respond properly by PM, so I'll respond here instead. 'Sides, seems a bit more fun to do so, cus you all deserve a proper thanks. And to those who are following and adding this little piece to your favorites - THANK YOU as well. Keep my inspiration flowing, though I must say - reviews feeds my brain like nothing else, it's so awesome to know that my work is to your liking so far. **

**And here are my replies:**

**VealMaster: WOW, right back at you! I realize your review was to my prologue, and I hope I haven't lost you yet, because your comment and kind words really made my day. In fact, I'm still high on it! THANK YOU. I hope to include a fine balance between descriptions and dialogues, though I know my mind to run amok sometimes and allow the descriptive parts to dominate. Trying to keep myself in check here. And yeah, lots of drama and angst heading your way, haha. **

**ScornedxRose: Thank you so much. I'm trying to make this as realistic as possible, and though I'm a big daydreamer, I don't know what it's like to lose ones mind completely like this, and I don't wanna step on anyones toes by simplifying the matter. This is a serious topic, and thus this fic should be read with caution. It is also part of the reason it's rated M. As for your little Daryl theory, there... I'm not saying ;)**

**Dhalia89: Thank you! I'm trying my best here, and like I said above, this is not a goodread-fic, it's a pretty dramatic, serious one, and I'm trying not to simplify any aspects of this, because it's a very difficult, and serious real-life topic. And you commenting specifically on my writing like this means a lot - it's why I created this in the first place, so I could sit around and do what I love most - write, write, write. **

**And now to the reason you're all here.**

**I've worked on this one for some days now - mostly in the mornings cus that's when my creativity is at its peak. There are a lot of (what could be perceived as) filler chapter in the beginning, so that you all get to know these people. Everything, every tiny bit of information, is important and will be used on a later point in the story - please keep that in mind. SO without further ado... enjoy!**

**I REMEMBER**

_Come all ye lost__  
__Dive into moss__  
__And I hope, that my sanity covers the cost__  
__To remove, the stain of my love__  
__Paper maché__  
__Come all ye reborn__  
__Blow off my horn__  
__I'm driving real hard__  
__This is love, this is porn__  
__God would forgive me__  
__But I, I whip myself scorn, scorn  
_

The cafeteria, although filled with various people, bore a hushed silence. I stepped in through the double doors, paused for a moment, then went to collect a tray and check out today's menu more closely. The room was spacious with an entire wall made up of huge windows, showing the garden outside and allowing light and the late, fall sun inside. Long tables were scattered about the room, occupied by the inhabitants of the institution, patients and staff alike. It would seem weird, to se all those people clad in white among with pale, scruff-looking patients, but this was explained easily; some of the ones admitted here, weren't allowed into the hospital's common rooms without supervision. Why, I didn't know. Or maybe I simply didn't remember. Besides, despite being a mental institution, one could sometimes forget this fact by observing how closely knitted the staff and patients institutionalized here were. It was a comforting sight, seeing them all mixing like this, but the white coats' clean appearance still helped to distinguish the obvious difference between the healthy, properly functioning people who merely spent their time here because their job description told them to do so, and the crazed, nervous, mentally ill ones who had no choice in the matter but accept the staff's company.

After selecting what looked most editable from the dinner menu, my plate wasn't even halfway full. I turned, let my eyes wander over the area, and spotted a thin, fragile-looking woman at a table by the windows, waving carefully at me to gain my attention. Deciding she seemed harmless enough, I walked over and sat down. She was quiet when I arrived, and I saw the telltale signs in her eyes as she searched mine for some kind of recognition on my part. When she found none, she didn't comment on it, didn't introduce herself like she must've done in the past sometime – maybe several times already. She simply smiled, and if she was disappointed, she didn't show it.

"Having a bad day?" She asked, and I saw that she wasn't even pretending to eat what she'd collected onto her plate. Her portion was even smaller than mine, and though I may be a complete mess and a borderline lunatic, I wasn't stupid and I picked up on certain things well enough. This woman was skinny in that sick way you only accomplished by starving yourself – in fact, she was so thin that her cheeks were sunken and hollow, and her cheekbones jutted out from her face. Her long hair, though the color a warm, mahogany brown, looked unwashed and lifeless as it framed her face, and I could see that it was thinning at the top. I suspected that should I run my hands through it, I would find bald patches; the kind of hair loss you got from starvation. It seemed ironic that she, who looked like she'd been through hell, and back – or in fact, she looked to still be a permanent resident there – would ask me about my health and happiness. But I answered her question politely, nonetheless.

"Well, I know the way back to my room, at least," I shrugged; taking a bite of the soggy lasagna I'd chosen.

"That's something," she said.

"But I guess it's bad in a sense that you apparently know me, but I have no recollection of ever meeting you," I admitted.

She only smiled at that, "I figured,"

"Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" I asked.

"No, I don't see the point in that," she sighed, looking out the window nearby. Then her eyes slipped back over to me and she wrinkled her nose, "you've got more important stuff on your mind. I'm not surprised my name hasn't stuck yet,"

"You're not important?"

"You just focus on trying to remember _your own_ name, before you start learning others',"

I snorted. She said it like a mother would do when scolding her child. I liked her.

"So, you apparently know why I'm here, then. Why are you?"

Her fleeting glance down at her plate confirmed my suspicions and answered my question at the same time.

"Anorexia, paranoia, social anxiety, depression – you name it, I've got it," she replied.

There was a small hesitance on my part before I smiled, "You seem pretty social to me,"

"Because I _know _you,"

"You and I – we're close?" I asked, perplexed.

"Close enough. You're the only one I could ever be honest with, because you never pitied me,"

"Don't you kind of deserve pity? That's a whole lot of craziness you've got going on,"

"And t_hat_ is why I like you. Humor. Irony. Wit. That, and because you rarely remember why I deserve to be pitied in the first place," she laughed.

"But sometimes, I do? Remember?"

She sighed, looked out the window again, and this time her eyes stayed there when she replied, "On good days,"

We sat in silence for a while after that. I ate my meal, she didn't touch her own. Soon, patients started removing themselves from the room, and I wondered if there was a group therapy session going on soon. I wondered if I was supposed to attend. Nah, someone would've informed me. Wouldn't they? Did they usually do that?

"Maybe you'll remember tomorrow," the woman across from me suddenly said. Then she got up to leave and smiled one last time, "I would like that,"

I felt sad, but nodded at her before she walked away, "I'll try my best,"

I didn't though. The next days continued in a similar fashion where I remembered little, but was constantly reminded by others, some in the clinic, forced kind of way – that would be my doctor – mostly in the sad, quiet way – my fellow patients. Until, a week later, I woke up to a single bird singing outside my window, and I rolled over to see a sparrow-looking small thing sitting just outside, on the windowsill. I watched it for a moment before a sleepy grin entered my face. I knew that bird. I _remembered._ It was my little bird, the one who usually kept me company while I filled out the questions on the clipboard every day after breakfast. I scrounged up my face a bit as I thought hard. Hadn't I given it a name, once? I _had_, hadn't I? I slipped out from the covers and walked over, studying it as its beady eyes studied me at the same time. A trail of breadcrumbs caught its attentions for a moment, and in its distraction, it forgot about me as it ate. Maybe that's what I felt like, when I forgot. Maybe I was like that bird. It was so fragile-looking as it hopped about, picking up small pieces of bread, its small body huddling up on itself as a faint gust of chilly wind tore through its feathers. It was time for it for leave soon, I knew. It couldn't stay in the cold weather; it would wither away if it did. Maybe its loyalty to this place was why it was still here, all alone.

"You gotta go," I told it. As if my voice _did_ somehow reach it, the bird stopped for a moment and turned towards me again, "you don't have to go far. Just a little further south,"

I fit every stereotypical description of a crazy person at that moment, making small talk with a bird.

"Don't worry about me," I laughed quietly, "I'll probably still be here when you get back,"

The little thing must've been ravenous, because it turned away again and started up its munching on breadcrumbs.

"Maybe I'll bring you a muffin back from breakfast," I mused.

I stood there for a little while longer, but the bird's name continued to escape me. I decided I would come up with a new one if I didn't remember soon. Someone clearing their throat caught my attention and my eyes travelled from the window to the doorway, where an old man was staring, wearing an amused smile on his wrinkled face. I didn't need to read this nametag this morning. I already knew who he was, and why he'd come.

"Hi doc!" I said cheerfully, realizing suddenly that I was still in my pajamas.

"Take your time," he said as I pulled out something to wear from the closet and went into the adjoining bathroom. I avoided the mirror in there, because I knew what I would find. Today, I didn't have to look to know, and that made me not wanting to look at all. I was a sorry excuse of a human being; thin, pale and fragile with dark circles surrounding my sunken eyes and bones jutting out from all parts of my body, a telltale sign that I was in serious lack of proper nutrition. Another reason to stay in this place: I couldn't find it in me to muster up any appetite, not because I was suffering of anorexia or bulimia or anything like that, but because the medicine they stuffed into my body had some less than appealing side-effects, making everything, food or drink, taste stale and metallic. And with me eating as little as I could get away with, I needed an extra set on eyes on me, along with a weakly health check.

I sighed and shook my head, leaving those thoughts behind. No, this was a good day, I could feel it, and I would do nothing to jeopardize my good mood, and dark musings of my situation had to be avoided.

When I came back out, my semi-long, strawberry blonde hair was pulled up into a messy bun, I was clad in a single, white T-shirt and too loose sweatpants – a common look for me these days – and I guessed the only thing that really separated me from a young woman in her early twenties looking to be sporting a massive hangover, adding to her already bleak pallor, was the wristband on my arm where my patient ID was to be found. On its papery surface my patient- and room number could be spotted. Normally, the band would also tell my age and name, along with other snippets of valuable information should I be lost and found, but too many details of me and my whereabouts would normally upset my already troubled mind should I have the urge to read what the band said, and in worst case scenario, cause me to remember troubling things. Instead, I was constricted to my room, the corridors and the institution's common rooms, and not allowed to venture outside without supervision, so that I didn't really have the chance to ever get lost. I didn't mind, the outdoor life never did appeal anyway.

"Ready!" I smiled, reaching for the powder-pink woolen cardigan resting on the back of the chair by the desk and put it on, completing my shaggy appearance. Pale pink, I decided, did nothing for my looks but adding to my paleness and making me seem sicklier white and more drawn than I already was. I didn't care; I'd choose comfort and warmth over anything, any day. The doctor pointed to the clipboard that had already found its way to the desk.

"You remember what to do when you come back from breakfast?"

"Fill out the form," I nodded, "how could I forget? I do this every day,"

He didn't reply to that, which was all right by me, I'd spoken in a rhetorical manner anyway. We both knew the answer to _that_ question.

While he was leading me down the corridor outside, I paused by room 113 and frowned. A strange gurgling sound was penetrating the silence, reaching through the closed door. I remembered the patient residing in there; actually, he was the only one whose face and habits I never seemed to forget, the latter consisting of his love for the gardens outside, where one would find him walking among the dying trees, squinting towards the sun. Just a couple of days ago, several white coats had to drag him inside, but not before he'd managed to dig semi-big, decent sized holes into the muddy ground. He'd gotten a hold on a shovel by breaking and entering into the gardener's shed that rested at the outskirts of the property – quite a walk now that I thought about it – and had been on room-arrest ever since. There had been no sign of life from him for a while, except from now and I wondered about the strange noises.

"Jim has taken a turn for the worse," the doc sighed, noticing where my attention had gone.

"How so?" I asked, and rested my hand on the white surface of the door.

For a second, the doctor looked like he wanted to reach out and pull me away from there, but he must've changed his mind because he came to stand next to me instead, a frown on his face.

"You know I can't give you any specific details, sweetheart. Confidentiality and all,"

"Let's say this is off the record?" I tried. But when he hesitated, I pushed further.

"Come on doc. I'll probably forget by tomorrow anyway,"

"You're worried about him?" the elderly man asked, scrutinizing me where he stood. He looked somewhat older today than what he normally did. His coat was, as always, clean, white and spotless, his nametag gleaming in the fluorescent lights above, and his pants straight ironed, a pale, blue color this morning. But his eyes said that he needed some rest soon, and I knew it was because he actually cared about the people he surrounded himself with, day in and day out – me included. And when someone showed any alarming signs of tossing the blanket in, it affected him deeply. Normally, I would find that his resigned state of mind entered his eyes at the same time he walked across the threshold of my room and looked for any sign of recognition in my blank face, whatever small hope I could give him, but found none. But there were rarely any problems with Jim, except for his habit of wandering around without supervised permission, and whenever my fellow patient showed up in a conversation, the doc would be sporting a fond smile and speak of Jim's latest antics with humor and mirth. So when I looked at the doc now, tired, worn and worried, I knew this had to be bad. I nodded my head to answer his question and looked at him imploringly.

"He's been confined to his room as a temporary solution. When the necessary paperwork has been done and signed by his family, he will be moved to the closed ward on sixth floor,"

I gaped in astonishment and gazed at the door, as if I could see right through it and the man inside was visible before me.

"Why?"

"He's taken on the habit of biting people who come too close to him. He's been ill since that day out – I know you've heard about his self-proclaimed mission to provide the garden with holes big enough to fit a person inside each of them?"

I nodded.

"He claimed to be doing us a favor and saving us from the stressful task of digging when we should be focusing on the sick ones," he continued.

"The sick ones? Us, the mentally ill?" I asked.

"No…" the doc frowned, "no, I don't think so. We have two psychologists questioning him every midday and afternoon to find out where this whole hole digging idea stemmed from. He says he's first of the sick, but that there'll be more,"

"And… what else?"

"Well he _is_ sick, all that digging in the cold gave him a serious fever. He's cooling down now, I _think, _had I only been able to check his temperature. But since this morning we haven't been able to get through to him and we daren't go too close. He doesn't utter a single word anymore, only that sound you can hear now. He's been mighty concerned about you too, you know, asked about you only yesterday when he was still speaking," he said hesitantly, as though he was regretting the words even as he said them.

"How? Why?" I breathed.

"Look, sweetheart – "

"If Jim has mentioned me, I wanna know what he's been saying," I said stubbornly, "it's my right,"

A brief pause stretched between us before the doctor sighed, "He said that if you leave now, you'll be saved. That you've got big things ahead of you, 'life changing stuff' I think his words were, and he'd hate to see you miss out just because you've been restricted to this place. He told me, specifically, to let you go, if only for a little while,"

Now that was startling news, because even if I did know Jim's name, his face and his habits, it was mostly because the rumors of his midnight walks spread throughout the institution like wildfire, and I just happened to be close enough to listen in on a couple of the nurses conversations with him as their main topic. That, and because on many sleepless nights on my part, I'd sit by my window and observe as the nurses led him back inside when they discovered him missing from his room, only to be found where we all knew he would be: in the garden, beneath the trees, standing completely still in the moonlight. Despite all this though, I couldn't remember ever speaking to him face-to-face – in fact, I was unsure I'd ever greeted him properly and introduced myself, and I guessed it was his curious nature that had led him to knowing the name of the patient in the room next to him, numbered 111. Or maybe we had met properly on one occasion, and I simply didn't remember. Which was odd, because he was the only person my mind allowed me so preserve memories of – why, I didn't know. Maybe he was of some sort of importance to me, maybe not, but the doc was right – I _did_ worry, because I actually cared about this strange man. I had come to put my trust in the fact that even if I woke up one day and remembered nothing of my whereabouts, which happened more often than I cared to admit, at least I'd have Jim to think about, because he was always constant, his face swimming atop the surface of my mind when all else had been forgotten, even if he was completely distant and foreign at the same time. Sensing my thoughts had taken a troubling turn, the old man laid a hand on my skinny shoulder and turned me towards him.

"He is very sick, honey. I don't know what his fate will be, but I assure you now that if there should be any major changes concerning his condition, I will personally let you know. Does that comfort you?"

Not really, no, I thought but pleased him by giving a brave, halfhearted smile, "Somewhat. Thank you,"

And with that he steered me away from room 113, and the gurgling sounds that escaped from within it.

The doctor's admission about Jim's words didn't leave my mind. I turned them over and over in my head, wondering what they meant, if there was even any meaning behind them. There was always the doubt and possibility that I was wasting my time trying to interpret an insane man's outbursts.

Breakfast that morning was a livelier affair than it normally was because the second I stepped inside the cafeteria, grabbed myself a healthy portion of black pudding and oatmeal porridge, I headed straight for the table I knew was reserved for me. I sat down in my usual seat by the windows, took a huge gulp of water, gathered up my spoon and said a cheerful "Morning!" to the occupant of the seat across from me. The woman, who'd only yesterday seemed like complete stranger to me, wore a look of surprise, a woolen hat resting atop her head. I wondered briefly if she too had taken a turn for the worse and the bald patches had become more visible, enough for her to want to cover them up, but decided not to ask. I knew she'd picked up on my mood, and I knew she would steer us away from uncomfortable topics, such as her health condition, so that I would be able to keep my alertness and conscious mind intact for a while longer. Depressing thoughts could crush my newfound stability. Besides all this, it wasn't my place to go digging into her personal manners. I remembered that she liked it best when she was allowed to talk without being asked to, and she would do that when she was ready. I hoped she would be sooner rather than later. I might not be as lucky tomorrow; my mind would most likely slip away soon now that my memories were allowed to roam freely, even the nightmarish ones. I wondered how long I'd be gone next time. I knew my doctor was pleased when he saw me this morning and could spot the recognition and awareness in my face, but I knew for a fact he would now alert the staff of the hospital of the possibility that the day after this one, or the day after that – there was a chance I wouldn't even be able to respond when spoken to, and my brain wouldn't be awake enough to get my legs working, forcing the nurses to escort me to the bathroom when nature called, and allow me to rest in my bed for as long as my body and mind needed me to. It would be awhile until I saw the cafeteria again, until I saw that little bird that waited for my company by the window in the morning and I wouldn't recognize any of the faces that surrounded me day in and day out. It was the prize I would eventually have to pay for this awareness I experienced now.

Banishing these facts and concentrating on here and now, I dug in and ate my bland porridge without complaint because the taste was familiar to me. The woman looked at me before a weak, and dare I say _motherly_ smile entered her face.

"I wanted you to know now, that I am never disappointed when you don't recognize me. But I must admit, it feels good to know that you do, if only for now," she admitted. Her voice was hoarse and sore, and I wondered if she was catching the same as Jim was currently struggling with, because I couldn't help but take notice of how feverish she looked. Perspiration had gathered on her forehead, and her eyes were glassy, the skin surrounding them puffy and red, as if just recovering from a crying spell.

I shrugged my shoulders and chased the porridge down with another gulp of water.

"I know you want to ask. I know you're wondering about my condition, it's all over your face," she continued.

"How is it that you can read me so easily?" I frowned.

"Because I care about you, and it's my job to know what you're thinking,"

"But it's not, though," I said, deciding to tread carefully before voicing what came next, "you're not my mother,"

I had not intended it to be rude, and she knew this so she didn't seem to take any offence.

"Yet you are the only child I have ever known, and the closest I will ever get," she pointed out.

And I remembered our first conversation that had taken place years ago, when I'd entered the cafeteria and joined her at this very table. This woman, this kind spirited, gentle being so full of demons and hurt that she couldn't survive out in the cold, cruel world by her own, was carrying a heavy burden, the load so suffocating that sleep deprivation and depression had caused her to slip into the hard, sharp claws of anorexia. If we were ever born into a certain lifestyle, if it was so that fate steered our actions until we reached a certain point in life, destined to carry out a mission, then this woman was born to be a mother. It was imprinted into her very soul, but biological complications had gotten in the way. She was sterile and was never allowed to have her greatest wish granted, and the loss and consequences this knowledge caused had led her to this place, to sit across from me, this very moment. If she wanted to pretend even for a second that I was hers, I would allow her to, because I needed her too. Because try as I might, though I was more awake and alert than I had been in a long time, I still couldn't remember my real mother's face. I could have been comforted by the fact that she would visit me later – she showed up almost every day – and I would finally get to see her when I was in this seldom, aware state of mind, but it was Sunday and though the outward appearance of my mother was a mystery, her habits were not; she would use this day to go to church and pray for my wellbeing, and wouldn't come here until tomorrow. Time had always been against me, and there was a big possibility than when she finally showed up, it would be too late.

Sensing the direction my thoughts had turned, my friend laid a thin, pale hand on top of mine.

"When I saw you for the first time, I thought you were an angel, sent to give me some relief from my boring and tiresome life. I have never met your mother, sweetheart, but I know she must be pretty amazing. She created you after all. When I do meet her some time, I'll make sure to thank her for that,"

I blushed faintly and withdrew my hand carefully, placing it in my lap and out of sight.

"Now come on, no false modesty now," she smiled. I smiled back.

Then she had to succumb to a small coughing fit, painful to watch as it rippled through her skinny body. I offered her the rest of my water and when she had calmed down, she was breathing heavily.

"I need to rest," she said.

"Can I do anything?" I asked worriedly.

"No, no darling. You just focus on taking care of yourself. The doctors can handle this – ", she gestured with a hand to her face and body, " – well enough. They're professionals,"

I nodded. Under a different circumstance I would offer to call up a friend or family member– someone who knew her and could keep her company while she rode out the sickness in her body – the kind of people that would bring her chicken soup and magazines during her recovery. That was impossible on two different levels: one; I wasn't allowed to make any phone calls, not even to my own loved ones (though as far as I knew, I only had my mother), second: this woman was all alone in the world, just like me. No family, no friends, no nothing. This thought alone was downright depressing, and I hoped, for the first time for another person's benefit rather than my own, that my mind would stay stable and put for a little longer so that at least_ I_ could be here to comfort my one and only real friend. I didn't like her being sick; especially if this was indeed something she had caught from Jim. The sounds coming from his closed door had been very disturbing.

When she walked away, her shoulders were hunched, as though she was pressing herself forward through a powerful blizzard. She was joined by her assigned doctor, a very young woman, with short brown hair, and kind, caring eyes – and supported through the cafeteria doors. I sat still, watching the scenery outside, marveling about how everything seemed to wither away these days, even the gloomy nature surrounding the institution.

It was sometime later, when I'd filled out the mandatory form sitting on my desk when I arrived from breakfast, that the sun stood high on the sky and I was in my windowsill again. The delivery truck was pulling in to the driveway, and I watched as its driver opened the door and stepped outside. Like last time, my doctor came out to greet him, this time carrying with him a cup of some sort of hot beverage – probably coffee – and handing it to the new arrival. The young man accepted the cup and was the same way today as he had been last time I saw him – clean shaven, tanned skin, brown, leather jacket resting on his brown shoulders, and mirth practically radiating from his handsome face. How he could keep up this happy appearance when entering this sad place was beyond me, but maybe it took no effort from him – maybe he truly was genuinely glad to be back here again, if only for a moment. Or maybe it was _because _he was only staying for a moment that he managed not to be affected by the depressed residents here. Shaking my head and pushing my confusing thoughts to the back of my mind, I kept on looking. They sat down on the front steps of the building, the driver listening and sipping his coffee while the doc talked. My room was one floor up and one window to the right from the main entrance – quite close to the men, but far enough away that it would be kind of hard to spot me with the sun reflecting on the surface of my window. Still, I was fairly sure that the delivery guy had seen me the last time he'd been here, about a week ago, so when I decided to open the window a little bit and let the fresh breeze outside flow into my overheated room, I did so quietly. The fact that this would also allow me to overhear their conversation if they talked loudly enough was just a bonus, I decided. Cringing as the hinges screeched from the movement, I got the window open, and once I felt the air slip into the room, I could hear masculine voices reaching my spot on the sill, one old, one definitely younger. _Victory._ It helped that the gardens were completely abandoned, and the nurses that had been so eager to help with the cargo the truck was carrying last time, hadn't made an appearance yet. There were no other sounds to interrupt their conversation, and me, to listening in.

"…Completely unexpected. It started with the one who dug those holes, over there –," the doctor was saying, pointing towards the garden where patches of freshly dug dirt were visible against the brown grass, " – and he hasn't responded to treatment. Problem is, the fever has spread throughout the building,"

"I was surprised," the younger said, his voice calm and collected as he digested the doctor's news, "when I got the call yesterday. Thought my last delivery would've lasted you a month, at least. But this explains a lot. Got loads of antibiotics this time,"

Of course, I suddenly realized, understanding their words immediately and the why's and how's to the question about the truck's sudden appearance. It had only been a week – give or take a few days – since its last visit, and though food was delivered on a weekly basis, medicine would only come once a month. I suspected that was why I found it so difficult to remember the delivery guy; it took too long between each time he arrived. And now he'd come with a second cargo in the short expanse of time that had passed because the doc was worried about Jim. I thought about my regular meal-companion and how she had seemed feverish today. More people were getting sick. I felt a pang of worry as well. She was anorexic and probably lacked just about every vitamin and other bodily defenses she would need to fight this off. I also found myself getting angry at Jim for exposing himself to the cold weather and catching this fever in the first place, thus endangering the health of his fellow patients. As if reading my thoughts, the doc suddenly spoke my thoughts out loud.

"I fear it's already too late for a couple of them. They come here because their bodies and minds are too weak to function on their own out there, and while we do our absolutely best to take care of them and offer them the medical treatment and therapy that they need, they cannot afford an infection like this,"

"High risk patients," the younger nodded, seeming to mull things over a bit as he drank his coffee.

"Exactly," the doc agreed.

"Is _she_ one of them? The youngest one?" the delivery guy suddenly asked, his voice so quiet I had to strain my ears to hear what he said.

And then the old man turned slightly, letting his gaze lift from the garden, up towards the building, and finally land on me. His old, blue eyes were piercing and I knew I'd been caught. I felt the breath leave my body and sat completely still, goose bumps popping out on my skin. Why I was so afraid of being spotted, I wasn't completely sure, although I knew I was not meant to overhear what they were talking about. I expected him to jump up and shout in alarm, maybe even make the delivery guy aware of my long ears as I watched them, but he just kept on staring at me, squinting a little against the sun. Then he turned back to his companion, pretending not to have seen me at all. And the delivery guy remained oblivious, his focus being the dying trees nearby and the newly covered up holes resting beneath them.

"No," the doctor said, loud and clear, making me jump in fright, "physically, she is one of the strongest ones here, although a little under nourished, by her own doing mind you,"

Was he taking this opportunity to _scold _me? I laughed in quiet relief. And when the older glanced at me once more, giving what I could only guess was supposed to be a reprimanding look; I accepted the hidden warning in his eyes and closed the window, removing myself from their conversation. It wasn't until later that evening, when I was safely tucked beneath the covers of my bed having just swallowed my evening dose of pills, that I realized that the delivery guy – this handsome stranger – had asked about me. _Me._ And for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. I let my thoughts simmer around in my head for a while, before sleep claimed my tired mind.

**A/N: **_Song: I remember - Damien Rice_


End file.
